


Double Feature

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-27
Updated: 2005-07-27
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:56:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: In which Aziraphale makes an effort. (London/An Aeroplane Over the Sea/Middle America, 1955)





	Double Feature

**Author's Note:**

> The kitsch, it burns.

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I never joke about my work, Crowley.”

“This isn’t actually _yours_ , though, is it? I mean, it does seem a bit, well...” He waved a hand through the air. “Conventional.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Aziraphale shrugged lightly, glancing over the edge of his newspaper before setting it down on the table. He pointed to an article. “They’re apparently _very_ amusing.”

“‘Drive-in cinemas, which have spread in a plague-like fashion across America,’” Crowley read aloud, his voice not entirely devoid of on-impact approval, “‘are concurrent venues for family entertainment via low-budget filmmaking and salted refreshments, and dens of adolescent vice and ven-- wait a moment--” He began to chuckle mirthlessly as Aziraphale plucked the paper from his hands and set it onto the counter behind him. “Ah, I see... Your people had an idea that backfired and you need someone to clean it up, yes? A spot of soot on the old pearly white robes, is it?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said, hastily shaking his head. “Nothing like that.”

Crowley arched a brow.

“It didn’t so much backfire as _evolve_. There _is_ a difference.”

“Yes, the difference between a wild dog and a hungry Alsatian,” Crowley said. “And you’ve asked me to come along with you to check up on one particular theatre in... Where was it?”

“Des Moines.”

“Des Moines?”

“They grow corn there. Er. Or so I have been told.”

“And _why_ would you want to experience such a thing _personally_?”

Aziraphale replied over the lip of his cup.

“What was that?”

“I just thought you might like a holiday,” he sighed. “We’ve been through rather a lot these past few years, haven’t we?”

“A holiday?” Crowley repeated incredulously. “That’s rich.”

“Look, you needn’t continue on about it if you’ve made up your mind. It was just an idea. There’s hardly a reason--”

“All right.”

“I really think we ought to-- eh? All right? You mean to say you’ll come?”

“I suppose so.” Crowley dropped his cigarette onto the ground and squashed it with a firm swipe of his boot-toe. “Just as long as...” He leaned forward to whisper into the angel’s ear.

“Really, my dear. I didn’t know you had it in you.” Aziraphale blushed, looking away, and then smiled, or produced the bud of a smile. It could have been misinterpreted as knowing. “And on my best carpet, no less.”

\------------------

“Well, isn’t this _nice_?” Aziraphale said as he settled into his seat. “Just what one wants in a mode of transportation, I think.”

“Ngk,” Crowley replied noncommittally. It had been difficult to ignore the endless procession of convention-hoppers, infants-in-arm, and attachés who had boarded the aeroplane before them. The stewardess, her cheeks stretched into a smile that was not to be outdone by the synthetic stitch of her uniform, patted his arm with a prefabricated brand of condescension when he asked whether the storm which presently loomed over Heathrow would effect their departure time.

They had been in the air for less than ten minutes, but a kink was already beginning to settle into the lower stretches of Crowley’s back. He thumbed through the magazines that were tucked into the seatback pocket in a bulge against his knees: seven outdated issues of _Life_ , a catalogue promoting all manner of military firearms and fashionable home decor, and an _Amazing Stories_ comic book.

Crowley rapped his knuckles on the rain-speckled window.

“It’s double-plated,” Aziraphale said, helpfully, and set his book down. How he had managed to fit his entire Dickens library into his rucksack would remain as a mystery for the ages. “You needn’t worry. It won’t break.”

“I’m not worried,” was Crowley’s lock-jawed reply. His hands were trembling, if only very faintly, and the package of peanuts that he was attempting to open at last obliged with a pop and a shower of paper-thin skin and salt.

A toddler three rows ahead of them began to wail.

If Aziraphale was perturbed by Crowley’s low string of profanity, he made no indication of it, and instead plucked an errant nut from his lapel and slipped it into his mouth. “This is much more agreeable than traveling by sea, the weather being what it is. It takes at least a day just to clear the smoke from one’s lungs, you know, and then another to acclimate oneself to the inevitable stresses of the sea-fairing lifestyle.”

Crowley gave him a sidelong glance. “Playing shuffleboard and queuing up for the champagne buffet whenever the whim strikes you?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale nodded, considering his words, and then spoke with what he clearly hoped was an air of authority, “Yes, the aeroplane is the _only_ civilized way to travel.”

Crowley sighed.

Although he wasn’t against the recent boom in popularity of civilian air-trawlers, he wasn’t exactly in favor of it, either. If humans were willing to so pointedly tempt fate, they might just easily strap themselves between two bloody great big engines with rather unimpressive strips of steel, and then hit go. He found it sickeningly quaint that TWA should so pride itself on a friendly, clean, and efficient style of service that was not unlike the purported conditions aboard the _Nautilus_.

The in-flight meal was a Salisbury steak with the flavor and consistency of boot leather, but not even the group of hound-nosed celebrity marksmen noticed that the two men-shaped beings sitting in the opposite row dined on filet mignon.

“I just don’t see the point,” Crowley said, dabbing a paper napkin across his lips.

Aziraphale sipped his wine. “The point of what?”

“All of _this_.” He made an expansive gesture. “It’s not even flying, really.”

The angel waved a hand, swiftly leaning forward to quietly ask something of a passing stewardess. She shook her head, and a lock of red hair fell out from beneath her cap and into her eyes. “We usually only give them to children.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and smiled with unexpected decision and charm, “but I would be so _very_ grateful if you would be kind enough to make this one exception.”

Her brow furrowed; she gave a slow nod. “Certainly, sir,” she replied breathlessly.

Aziraphale smiled again as he turned towards Crowley.

“Well?” Crowley asked, idly tapping his fingertips on the armrest.

“The staff is quite amiable, don’t you think?”

“Their skirts are certainly short enough as to leave very little to the imagination.”

“Imagination?”

After another minute, the stewardess returned. “Here we are,” she said, and placed something small and glimmering in Aziraphale’s upturned palm. “Do let me know if there’s anything else I can get for you.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

Aziraphale reached forward to pin an enameled pair of captain’s wings on Crowley’s lapel. He patted the back of Crowley’s hand, and Crowley felt a lump rise in his throat.

High above the Atlantic Ocean, the aeroplane fell into a tailspin.

\------------------

Aziraphale set his suitcase down, stared up at the mammoth pea-green sign for Penny Pincher’s Airport Rentals, and then back to the man who was seated behind the counter. “Hello, my good fellow,” he said. “I have a reservation to rent an automobile.”

The clerk pushed his wire-framed spectacles up the bridge of his nose, and the lenses flashed in the afternoon sunlight. He smiled thinly. “What’s-the-name?”

“Mr. A. Fell. With an ‘F’.”

“You-two-together?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Yes.”

“Just-a-minute.” He searched through a pile of paperwork on his desk, glanced at each level of a filing cabinet, and then retreated into the back room without explanation.

“You’re certain this has been arranged for?” Crowley asked wearily. His tie hung in a sleek red sliver about his neck, and his hair hung limply about his temples; his shirt and jacket remained curiously unruffled. After his fifteenth Rob Roy, controlling a commercial airliner hadn’t seemed so dour a task as it had upon first glance.

“Of course,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Heaven’s travel bureau is absolutely infallible.”

“I suppose that’s why Michael went ahead with that timeshare in Pompeii.”

“He always _was_ one for idyllic minibreaks.”

“Sulfuric, more like.”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale sighed. “I daresay he would have had a jolly time in Naples.”

A tower of papers strode through the doorway, paused with faint trepidation, and then righted itself on the counter. “Sign-here-please,” it said, suddenly sprouting an arm and proffering a pen.

Aziraphale did as he was directed.

“And-here.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Will-you-be-needing-insurance?”

With a glance to Crowley, Aziraphale shook his head. “No,” he said.

The clerk peeked out from behind form 45-C. “Here-are-the-keys. Enjoy-your-stay-in-scenic-Iowa.”

“Ah. My friend and I have reservations at an hotel called the Imperial Pigeon. Might we have directions?”

“The-Imperial-Pigeon-went-belly-up-last-month.” He stroked his dark mustache in thought, and then let out a short laugh. “You’ll-be-wanting-the-Super-Six-and-Sleep-on-Gordon-Street. Nice-place. Not-too-expensive.”

“I see. And is that far?”

“Twenty-minute-drive. Turn-left-on-Pryce-Avenue-and-right-on-First. Thanks-for-choosing-Penny-Pincher’s.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale gingerly plucked the keys from the counter between his thumb and forefinger, lifted his suitcase, and followed Crowley outside. “Well,” he said. “This is all very-- Oh, _dear_. How marvelous!”

The automobile stood parked by the kerb, all pink fins and glistening red bulbs, leather interior and chrome; its grill grinned back at them, and its horn bellowed forth at an amplitude apt to seduce a whale in heat.

“No.” Crowley shook his head, taking a step back. “No, no. There’s not a chance in Heav-- Hel-- _Flanders_ I’ll ever drive _that_.”

“Come, my dear,” Aziraphale ventured, and pushed the keys into Crowley’s hand. “It’s a very pretty automobile, and not so very different from the Bentley, is it?”

A pause. “I won’t dignify that question with an answer, angel.”

“Well, now we’ve come all this way, perhaps you might _like_ to drive something a bit more...”

“Capricornified?”

“That’s not a word I use.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, taking care to smooth his trousers as he sat down inside. “Remember: they drive on the other side of the road here.”

Crowley mumbled something about the car looking better for a wreck, and turned the key in the ignition. They arrived at the Super Six and Sleep in four minutes, checked in in seven, checked back out again in fifteen, and arrived at the Idle Dove Hotel in twenty.

\------------------

“Sweets?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“I suppose you’ll want sweets before the picture begins.”

“Oh. Yes. Certainly, yes.”

Each car that they walked past was more fogged than the last; the apparent _joie de vivre_ in modern youths startled Aziraphale into a state of censured astonishment, though he could have done without the thick layer of sticky slime which lined the floor of the concession stand.

Crowley cleared his throat.

The attendant, a bleary-eyed, spotted boy of about fifteen, pushed his magazine beneath the counter and lumbered to his feet. “Sorry, mister.” He smiled facetiously. “What’ll it be, then?”

“We’re here for a bit of _refreshment_ ,” Aziraphale said with a conspiratorial wink.

The boy nodded dumbly.

“Good.” Aziraphale winked again. “Perhaps you might know--”

“When was that popcorn made?” Crowley cut in.

The boy shrugged. “Tuesday.”

“Today is Friday.”

Another shrug.

“I see.” Crowley eyed the glass case warily. “We’ll have two bags, then, and a medium cola.”

“Oh, I should rather like a package of licorice,” the angel chirped.

“Make that two bags of popcorn, a package of licorice, and a medium cola.”

“Black or red?” the boy asked, wiping his hands on his chocolate-streaked apron.

“What?”

“Licorice. Would you like the black or the red?”

“Oh,” Crowley said, and then grimaced. “Black.”

Aziraphale smiled as the boy went about his task of procuring popcorn and garnishing it with an atomically-shaded syrup that would have felt quite at home in old Jekyll’s laboratory. “Remarkably efficient,” he said under his breath, and then, his tone more conversational, “What film is to be shown this evening?”

The boy looked up. “ _Attack of the 50ft Arachnids from Mars_.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale folded his hands before him placidly. “Delightful.”

“Anything else?”

“No, I think not.”

“All right.” The boy held out his palm. “That’ll be one and a nickel.”

“One and a nickel,” Aziraphale repeated. Lightly patting his pockets, he hesitated before continuing, “Er, do you accept cheques?”

“Here,” Crowley said, and placed a handful of change on the countertop. Aziraphale caught his eye.

“Thank you, my dear boy,” he said.

Crowley shook his head, positioned the bags of popcorn against his chest, and stepped out into the open air with a swift turn of his heel. Aziraphale trailed behind him.

The evening was warm and breezy, and the dusk was dotted with stars; when it at last flashed into life, the screen made the night brighter than the day. Crowley positioned their speaker just as the heroine made her initial vocalization of peril.

A fleet of arachnids had landed.

Aziraphale waited, watched; with a yawn, he draped his arm along the seatback.

“Crowley,” he whispered, darting the tip of his tongue across his lips.

Crowley pushed several pieces of popcorn into his mouth.

Aziraphale cleared his throat with all the subtlety he could muster. “Crowley,” he said again after several minutes had passed. He blinked once, twice, and then deepened his gaze. “Crowley, my dear.”

“Shh,” Crowley replied, still not looking away from the screen. “This is the good part.”

Aziraphale sighed, settling back against his seat as a giant tarantula proceeded to mount a mighty Egyptian obelisk. If other filmgoers ever took notice of the fact that the second feature, _Zorrina, Queen of the Galaxy_ , bore an uncanny resemblance to Charles Dickens’ immortal classic _David Copperfield_ , they made no complaint.


End file.
